Hard Knocks
by C. Selene Belle
Summary: Supplimental to Chances. A scene where Al must face a humiliating therapy session and Sam is consumed by guilt. Al was previously shot and paralyzed.


A/N: I'm not sure what this is or where this came from. I'm bleary eyed, staring at the screen, thinking of scenes I wrote a long time ago that I felt I could have written better . . . so I did. I don't think this scene was anywhere in Chances, though, even if I wanted something like it to be there. At the time, I didn't know much about rehab and stuff. I have since learned. It's just a tiny little scene. Take it for what it is. I think I write better now.

**Hard Knocks**

"You being here is not something I need right now." The Admiral put up his old walls. There was a lot of stuff he could take. When life gave him lemons, he not only made lemonade but he generally kicked the ass of who ever gave him a lemon in the first place. Or just made kick ass lemonade.

Sam stood in front of him now. The guy was nervous. Guilty. Depressed. Confused. A lot of words could have been used to describe the way the usually brilliant physicist looked. None of them would have been very positive. In truth, the man was a wreck. If his wife hadn't dressed him that morning, he might have shown up naked.

The rehab place was generally empty. Most people were having lunch. Al didn't feel like eating and pushed ahead with his therapy session early. He had his new chair by now. A sleek, black, aerodynamic machine with cambered wheels and two inch casters. It was the ugliest thing Sam had ever seen. Al wasn't too far from agreeing. If the subject would ever have been brought up. Nearly four months since a bullet severed Al's spinal cord, and the two smartest men in the world were having trouble communicating.

Seeing Al in the wheelchair made Sam cringe. It wasn't lost on the Admiral, but he made no mention of it. He gripped his wheels and could have burned a hole in the floor with his stare. His jaw was tight. His legs didn't work. His friend wouldn't talk. Life sucked.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, but it was an empty apology. Why would he be sorry? He wanted to say he was sorry for more than just being sorry. His best friend got shot – for him – and was now permanently disabled. The Admiral was 64 years old. Not really young, but not old enough to need mobility aids. But there he was, sitting in a wheelchair that was probably designed for the 20-something paraplegic.

"I don't know why you bother," said the Admiral dully, pushing away toward the therapy that he dreaded. The wheelchair rolled effortlessly across the linoleum of the pseudo-gym. The parallel bars were close to the one end of the room. He stopped next to them. His therapist, an attractive middle-aged woman named Linda, came in with a smile that made Al want to scowl. Before she could say anything, he practically spat out, "I don't know why you bother either."

Linda froze, holding her hands up in surrender. "Sorry if I did something to offend. Just doing my job."

"Yeah, well, your job sucks." Al wasn't in the mood to be nice. He was 64, about to be forced to retire from the Navy, with a best friend who's been acting like a slug, and he couldn't walk. Nice wasn't on the agenda any time soon. Linda figured the statement came with the job. Physical therapists were like that. Understanding and patient. Sometimes not so patient, but most of the time they were the epitome of it.

Sam couldn't berate the man for his treatment of her. He could barely put two words in without falling all over himself with guilt. He approached Al, watching morbidly as he – in his shiny new chair – was moved to one end of the dreaded, ominous looking parallel bar exercise.

"I just wanted to see you," Sam said simply, his heart clenching while Linda helped put on ugly braces that went up to Al's thighs. Al wasn't even watching the procedure, wasn't helping his therapist with this task. His eyes were screwed shut, and he struggled to shift his position in his seat so that she could lift a lifeless leg and apply the straps. He pushed up with his arms, scooting awkwardly to the side. Linda made an offhand comment about having good trunk muscles intact.

"I don't want you to see this," Al insisted tightly. He wanted to hide, to run, to push Sam away. Anything to get him away from this humiliation, this demonstration of showing how useless he really was now – how helpless he will be forever. "Sam, please. Just leave." Linda was staying out of that one. Sam didn't look like he was moving, his feet glued to the floor, and his eyes glued to the Admiral's legs – now neatly trussed. There were locks on the knees of the leg braces, and at the ankles were stirrups. It made both of Al's limbs stick out from where he sat, and his pant legs puffed and wrinkled underneath the straps. They were uglier than the wheelchair. Sam swallowed. Al turned his head away.

"Get the hell out of here, Sam," This time, Al's firm tone lost something solid. It trembled.

"No. I won't," came the answer.

"Fine." Al forced himself not to care, pushed it aside to be dealt with in due course, like so many other moments in his life. This was no different. He'd survived the hell of Vietnam, beaten to within an inch of his life for eight years, coming home with broken bones of every imaginable sort, and parasites infesting his innards like it was the damn Club Med. Nailed to a cross, staked out in the sun to burn for days, starved, caged . . . being paralyzed was nothing.

"Ready, and lift." Came Linda's encouraging tone. Al's hands were gripping the bars on either side as if they were the thread to life itself. His knuckles turned white, his jaw was clenched tight in the struggle, grunting as he tried to stand on legs he couldn't even feel. He couldn't do it alone, not yet anyway. If he would ever be able to, it would be on a pair of crutches, wearing the same kind of braces on his legs. It was the reward for being an incomplete paraplegic. He couldn't feel a damn thing, but he could move most of his lower trunk and almost – if he really tried – his hips.

The fight to stand was an extraordinary sight to behold. Sam hated it. Al did too.

The moment came when Al could feel some sort of balance in his equilibrium, something that told him he was upright. He opened his eyes again, looking around and feeling tall again. And dizzy. But he wouldn't let that get to his head. There weren't many moments lately where he was back to his normal height – all five feet and six inches of it. He looked over and saw Sam still standing near by, and looked away. Linda had a job to do.

"Okay, Admiral, let's try the right leg."

"Don't treat me like goddamn kid." Linda said nothing. She used her hands to help lift the Admiral's right leg, forcing his hip to move up and his foot to slide across the floor. She did the same to the left. Then it was his turn. Moving his hip was hard, and just trying to do it didn't work. He didn't move. Linda tried a different approach.

"Lift with your arms and swing forward with your hips and your tummy." Al turned a leer on her.

"My 'tummy'?" Linda glared back.

"Your abdomen, if you will." Al let it go. He took a deep breath, using the excellent strength he still had – and gained – in his arms. For a brief moment, both feet lifted and dangled off the ground. With enormous effort, Al focused on the muscles he had around his stomach and crunched, throwing his legs forward and lowering himself again. He moved. It wasn't spectacular or particularly attractive, but he walked. Then he lost his balance. He hit the mat hard.

Sam rushed to his side. "Oh, god, are you okay?" Al pushed half his body – the working half – up and glared.

"I can't fucking walk, Sam. You think I'm okay? God," He lowered himself back down, sinking, hiding his face and feeling his stomach shrivel from the humiliation, "Just leave me alone, Sam."

Sam had a choice to make. He could be responsible, he could be caring. He could give Al some dignity and leave him alone as he asked. He can be an adult about this. Or he could be the caring friend he's always been, and always will be, to Al. Sam wanted to hug the little guy, the man who was nearly twenty years older than he was, who had survived tragedies, death, horror and destruction. The man who might well be considered the toughest nut in the world to crack, who got his doctorate from the School of Hard Knocks . . .

The man he knew was weeping silently on the floor of the rehab department of Alamogordo General.

"I'm sorry, Al," said Sam. The guilt was too much. It was eating at him, gnawing, chewing, biting. It was poisoning him . . . and his friendship would suffer.

Sam left Al alone.


End file.
